


No Respite From Horror

by instakills



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Latveria, deep doom lore, latverian politics and revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 01:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14606334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/instakills/pseuds/instakills
Summary: Doom kills Vladimir Fortunov in the same way that a pig is lead to slaughter: squealing in protest at the hand of the butcher.





	No Respite From Horror

**Author's Note:**

> i got pissed thinking about marvel's racism towards viktor and comparing him to his fascist nazi oppressor so i wrote this. the title is from one of jenny holzer's inflammatory essays, which were an inspiration for the type of writing style i used here. vive la révolution and whatnot. thanks to lana and tiger for proof-reading. comments always appreciated. enjoy!

The coup takes no more than four hours. It is only dusk by the time that the revolution reaches the heart of Hassenstadt. The mountains among the border of Latveria and the walls of the inner city reverberate with cheers of liberation. Violence blooms for the sake of justice. Justice is granted by the uprising. Every soul fighting against the crown and with the oppressed can taste change on the tips of their tongues. They are close to claiming deliverance with their own hands. This land has always been theirs for the taking.

Hassenstadt’s castle is heavy with blood, drenched with it in a futile attempt to secure a regime that was always destined to be massacred, decimated like the animal it is. The throne room is littered with misshapen, unmoving bodies laid to waste protecting their dictator. Only a few lives remain, and all but one are lives that have stronger wills than those who have tried to break them.

Doom kills Vladimir Fortunov in the same way that a pig is lead to slaughter: squealing in protest at the hand of the butcher. It knows its fate, it has always known, but death is still unwanted and the primal fear of the dark begins to settle. Doom’s hand, encompassed and clawed in sharp metal, is the butcher’s knife, and Fortunov’s chest is the pig’s underbelly. Fortunov squeals in his own way, stringing together pleas so quickly that they become incomprehensible beneath his tears. Promises, a repetition of: _anything, anything,_ just spare his life _please_. Doom looks upon him scrambling on the marble floor with cold indifference, like Death standing over the newly deceased as much as he is like the butcher, dutiful and absolute, a foot planted on Fortunov’s cape.

He leans down, the fear in Fortunov’s wide eyes reflecting in the titanium of Doom’s armor. Fortunov cannot see Doom’s eyes underneath his mask. He does not know if this is better or worse, and so he lashes out, knocking off the mask, and this only happens because Doom allows it. The man underneath is indeed a man, scarred but still beautiful. Young, but still unfaltering. Fortunov does not know if he looks more like a monster or an angel. He does not know which is better or worse.

The short, wavy locks of his hair remind Fortunov vividly of a Romani witch-woman that died by the sword of his soldiers long ago. The shape of his nose reminds Fortunov of his old medical doctor, the one that failed to save his wife. Fortunov recognizes him, and a scream is caught in his throat, his eyes locked in terror. The blood of his foot soldiers previously slaughtered by the revolution’s forces begins to pool around him, seeping into his green cloak and painting the edges of his white skin scarlett and matting his blonde hair.

Doom plunges his hand in Fortunov’s chest with the ease of a knife slicing through butter. The crack of his sternum echoes across the room and blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth, a muffled shriek scratching against his vocal cords. His shirt drips red as the wound in his chest deepens. Doom’s taloned fingers grasp at his beating heart, and Fortunov can feel the rising pressure in his chest. His heart beats desperately and pitifully against Doom’s grip, like a bird throwing itself against the bars of its cage until it has beaten itself into a lifeless pulp.

Doom leans closer, still, his lips close enough to almost brush against Fortunov’s ear. As he trembles violently, Doom remains composed, whispering something in his ear that is loud enough for only Fortunov to hear. Fortunov has no time to come to terms with the actions of his life as he quivers underneath death’s embrace. There is no time for penance, should he even feel it. Mercy will not grace him in these last few moments. His resistance is futile; Doom is in control. The words Doom speaks, Fortunov thinks, sound like the depths of Hell. This is his first glimpse into perpetual and fiery oblivion.

Fortunov’s chest bursts when Doom makes a fist, his heart exploding, drenching Doom in blood. The last breath of Fortunov’s life escapes his lips and his eyes roll back. This is Doom’s own form of baptism: blood rather than water. Fortunov is dead, his actions are absolute. He closes his eyes and allows himself to feel peace wash over him in the first time in a long while.

The sun begins to set on Latveria, orange light pouring in to the throne room as Doom looks out through the balcony before him and country beyond. Doom opens his eyes and exhales, a profound clarity setting upon him as apparent as the rays of the sun. He removes the cloak and medallions from Fortunov’s corpse, holding them loosely. Fortunov’s blood and his armor gleams as he rises to his feet.

From the group of Doom’s soldiers, waiting patiently for their leader, Boris steps forth. Having picked up the mask previously batted aside, he places it back on Doom’s face. Without hesitation, he takes the cloak and medallions from Doom’s bloody hands. He wraps the cape around Doom’s shoulders, fixing the medallions in place. Boris’s hands linger on Doom’s arms. He looks up at Doom. No words need to be said. He steps aside. This was what was always meant to be.

Valeria is the next to approach Doom. Her movements are purposeful, dropping the gun that she held as she cups Doom’s face. Doom angles his gaze down, and Valeria presses her forehead against his. She speaks to him in a language different from what Doom spoke to Fortunov: one that is theirs, has been theirs, and always will be. Her voice is heavy. This is her justice as much as it is his. She knows his anger. She presses a kiss to his mask and draws away.

Doom looks up, back towards the setting sun. He moves towards the balcony, bathed in the sun’s light, to address the thousands that have now gathered below. He takes another breath, acknowledging the familiar forests that stretch along the horizon and near the city. He witnesses the spirit of Latveria’s people, a cry of freedom erupting from them. The blood he wears now will always be worn for them. He recognizes his kingdom. He knows his future. He sees what path he will take.

Here, he can build.


End file.
